


swear on a silver knife

by ms_scarlet



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: (look everyone's down to get some but there's a lot of general dishonesty afoot), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drinking, F/M, Formalwear as Foreplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Season/Series 03, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shaving, Vaginal Fingering, lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_scarlet/pseuds/ms_scarlet
Summary: It starts with a lie.#1: She doesn’t want this.#2: She doesn’t trust him.#3: It doesn’t mean anything.The thing is, the best lies are a little bit true.---For #GGKink2020, prompt 28: Rio loves shaving Beth, especially her legs, with old fashioned tools. She returns the favour. Shaving kink, maybe little knife/razor play
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 27
Kudos: 99
Collections: Good Girls Kinkfest 2020





	swear on a silver knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissMaxime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaxime/gifts).



> Dedicated to [missmaxime](https://missmaxime.tumblr.com/) who gives impeccable prompt, apologies for being spiritually incapable of keeping this simple.
> 
> My heart belongs to [foxmagpie](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com/), without whom this fic would not have happened. Thank you for everything up to and including letting me live in your brain and shaping this into the best thing it could be. 
> 
> Title adapted from Middle of the Night by Amy Shark

It starts with a lie.

“No, Dean, it’s not for him, I just need you to—oh _fiddlesticks,”_ Beth cries as she knocks the thankfully unlit scented candle Ruby gifted her in an attempt to help her relax off of the ledge next to the tub. 

She can feel herself blush at her inability to swear, can practically _hear_ Annie’s derisive snort. It’s a pointless substitution; the kids are all well out of earshot in what used to be the den—still technically is, she supposes, if a Goodwill sofa and hastily purchased TV set up on the floor counts as a den—but still. Some habits are impossible to break.

The phone wedged between her ear and shoulder slips a little as she reaches for the candle, but not enough that she can’t hear the smug layer to Dean’s tinny little voice through the speaker.

“Yeah, but it’s your week until tomorrow,” he retorts.

“I know, and I _told_ you—”

“I have things that come up too, Beth. I can’t be your only option whenever you need a _babysitter—”_

“You’re their _father,_ Dean.” 

A sopping washcloth clamped in her other hand, Beth carefully wiggles a little closer, keeping one foot propped up on the edge of the tub, trying not to get water all over herself or the floor. The very tips of her fingers just barely brush the glass of the candle’s jar.

“Well.” Dean sounds far too pleased for himself for a man going back on his promise to watch his own children for an evening thirty minutes after he was supposed to arrive. “I’m sorry Beth, but we’re getting divorced. You can’t rely on me to be your point person anymore.”

Beth sighs. “Dean—”

“I tried, okay? But I can’t move this dinner. You’ll have to figure something else out.”

Beth lunges, overextending but getting enough of a grip on the candle that she can roll it closer and snatch it up, her victory cut short when her phone clatters to the floor.

“Look, Dean, I get it, but I _have_ to—” she says, raising her voice so he can still hear her. 

Except, when Beth sets the candle back on the ledge and grabs her phone, she sees he’s hung up on her. And there’s a splotchy trail of wet patches blooming across her dress where she’s dribbled water all over herself.

“Damn it!”

“Mommy, are you okay?” 

Emma pokes her head in from the bedroom, her timing on track with the rest of Beth’s day. Between a delayed shipment at the Paper Porcupine, a contentious PTA booster sale planning meeting, and now Dean reminding her he’s waiting in the wings to become a major problem at any moment, it’s been a series of trying to do things right and failing regardless. 

“I’m fine, sweetie,” Beth assures her, setting the phone down on the edge of the tub and looking around for anything in reach she can use to stop the damp patch from spreading. “Can you hand me my towel?”

Emma obediently snatches it up from where Beth accidentally left it on the counter next to the sink and pads over, the fluffy bottoms of her plush unicorn slippers _swicking_ across the tiles.

“Thank you,” Beth says, accepting the towel and pressing it to the damp spot. 

She should’ve known something like this would happen; she was playing with fire deciding to shave her legs after getting dressed, but she’d been running late and wasn’t even intending to do it in the first place. She’d figured she could cut corners and forgo her legs. One of the perks of being blonde: her hair’s light and fine enough that even with stubble, no one can see it unless they get up close, and it’s not like _that’s_ happening.

Except once she finished getting ready, it seemed like—she only thought—

“You look really pretty,” Emma says, reaching out to toy with one of the curls Beth let fall free around her face from the loose updo she’d pinned most of her hair into.

“Thank you, honey,” she repeats, fighting back a blush and dabbing furiously at her skirt. The dress isn’t ruined or anything; it’ll dry, and really, the damp spot wouldn’t be visible against the patterned texture of the lace even if it didn’t. It’s just one more thing that didn’t go right today. 

God, she needs a break. Not another night of—whatever this is.

“I think Aunt Annie’s going to come over tonight, doesn’t that sound fun?” Beth tries to inject as much excitement into her voice as possible like she can dazzle Emma and, by extension, the rest of the kids into forgetting she’d told them their dad was coming over.

It doesn’t work. Emma’s little face falls, her lip wobbling before she bites down on it, and a wave of guilt and regret crashes over Beth. Maybe she should cancel and stay home. 

She nearly scoffs. Wouldn’t that be a fun conversation?

“Dad said we could make a blanket fort,” Emma says, her voice small, and Beth feels it in her chest.

“I know sweetie, but something’s come up.” Beth holds out an arm and Emma shuffles closer, blinking rapidly. Beth’s mind races, trying to figure out if she has enough of _anything_ in the house to recreate something like that. At least comparably fun. “You know what? I think we have some marshmallows. You guys can go find some sticks in the yard and toast them in the fireplace. I’ll tell Aunt Annie to grab the sheets off my bed and you guys can make a tent. Go camping inside. How’s that sound?”

Nibbling on her lip, Emma thinks it over. When she eventually nods, hesitant, Beth makes a mental note to ask Annie to grab marshmallows when she begs her to come over.

“Why don’t you go get one of your brothers to turn on another movie?” Beth suggests, sweeping Emma’s hair back and cupping her face. “Maybe _Tangled_ this time?”

Emma snuffles and Beth’s heart feels like it’s cracking in two. 

“Kenny says singing movies are for babies.”

“I think Kenny’s forgetting how much he loves _Coco_ because that movie definitely has a lot of singing.”

That gets a grin out of Emma. It’s small, but it glows. She nods and scampers towards the door.

“Kenny’s a baby!” she shouts triumphantly, sliding a little as she darts out of the bathroom.

“That’s not—” Beth starts to call after her and stops, rolling her eyes. She’ll take whatever will distract them right now, and besides, Annie’s always been uncannily good at settling them down when they’re fighting. 

She grabs her phone and flicks it open, scrolling to favorites and hitting Annie’s number. 

“Hey,” Beth says when Annie picks up with a drawling _yello._ Beth can hear the muffled sounds of traffic and prays she’s caught Annie after her shift. And that she doesn’t have plans tonight _._ “I need a favor.”

  
  


———

  
  


_got a job. 6 pm thurs. dress up._

When the text came in a few days ago, Beth was so shocked she nearly dropped her phone. Shocked enough that she’d assumed at first it wasn’t meant for her and almost texted back _You know who this is, right?_

Because that’s not...they’re not casual with each other like that. Not anymore.

It’s not the lack of detail that surprised her. Rio’s always seemed to delight in making her ask for more information, always seemed to know it felt like it cost her something to do so. Like they’d played a game and she’d lost by needing anything from him.

The tone, the terseness of it, that wasn’t a surprise either. His texts always leaned sparse even back...before. These days, on the rare occasions that she heard from him, it’d grown even more pronounced. Especially since—

Well. 

No, the part that shocked her so much she’d had to read the message once, twice, three times was the three words—actually, two words, one article: _got a job._

They didn’t _do_ that. Not any more. 

Truthfully, they never had. There’d been a couple of times in that stretch when they’d been pretending to be partners—when she’d let herself start to think, daydream really, that this, _they,_ were something she could make work—when he’d had her come to meetings. _Let_ her come to meetings if she’s honest. And looking back, she can see they weren’t ever anything consequential. Mostly just meets with people she already knew. Mick, the other guy—tall, bald, she never caught his name—maybe one or two others, people that obviously worked for Rio and had no interest in her, working out drop schedules and what would be on the lot when. 

The embarrassment that comes with remembering how eager she’d been to prove herself is still as acute as ever. Worse, really, now that she can see there was never anything to prove. That Rio’d been treating her like a child. 

Or no, not even a child. A _pet._

He’d let her feel like she was building something, working towards something, but all along, he’d been trotting her out, showing her off like some kind of trained show dog. Scratching her behind the ears and telling her she’d done a _good_ job—God, _barely_ even telling her that—when she hadn’t truly done anything much at all beyond providing a respectable name that wasn’t even hers to begin with.

Beth inhales, trying to breathe through the hollow ache that blooms in her chest whenever she remembers, and the jagged sound bounces around the room, the tiny waver at the end magnified by the echo. 

But _got a job_ was different. New. Entirely unexpected and not something Beth had any idea how to navigate. 

Eventually, after letting it sit for a day, she’d tried calling. It meant losing their standoff but she didn’t know what she was supposed to _do_ with this. She wasn’t even sure if he’d meant to send that text to her in the first place. Maybe it was supposed to go to some other girl, someone he trusted.

 _Got a job_ changed the rules. It pulled the rug out from under her. 

Rio had let the call ring out. It wasn’t a surprise but still sat weirdly in Beth’s stomach. Then, a few hours later, her phone buzzed, a _try to look done up, yeah_ lighting up the screen, the _unlike you usually do_ inferred as clearly as if he’d tacked it on.

That got under her skin, she’s not going to pretend it didn’t. 

Especially because she knows, she _knows,_ it’s a gauntlet thrown down, and Rio’s only implied it to mess with her, to make her mad. It’s not like she hasn’t seen him looking at her. She knows however she’s usually _done up_ isn’t _not_ working for him. 

She remembers walking through the empty showroom, how she didn’t even have to look at him to know he was watching her. How she could nearly feel the weight of his gaze sweeping up and down, resting heavy on her like he could somehow see through her bulky wool coat and thick knit turtleneck, all the way down to her bare skin. How the air seemed to sharpen and her breath had caught in the back of her throat before she brushed it off—even as she filed it away for later consideration. 

The point is, he’s never made a secret of the way he looks at her and they both knew it, just like they both knew why he’d sent that text.

The part that bothers her the most is its effectiveness, even knowing—or maybe more so _because_ of the knowing—what was behind it.

So, Beth went and bought a dress. 

It was a stupid thing to do, especially considering—

And besides, her house is still mostly empty. She’s only _just_ scraped together enough money to refurbish the kids’ rooms with the bare necessities to get them partially out of Judith’s. Hell, her kids can’t even make a blanket fort without scrounging the sheets off her bed.

But what was she supposed to do? She has all of seven articles of clothing total hanging in her closet, which he _knows,_ seeing as he was the reason for it. She’s assuming he thinks she’ll wear the black and white polka-dotted dress she’d worn that one night—the one that’d ultimately driven Dean around the bend past the point either of them could deal with it—but she was determined to surprise him. Catch him off guard. 

The dress she’d gone for was different from her usual style. It was a lot more form-fitting, for one. Then there’s the V down the back, the deeper, narrower V in the front, and a third V coming up from the hem, making it feel shorter than it is. Shorter than she usually wears. Between that, the sleeveless cut, the sheerness of the midnight organza silk underlayer, and the open weave of the deep navy floral lace overlay, it makes her feel like more of her skin is on display than it realistically is. She’d spent a lot of time studying herself in the mirror in the dressing room before she’d gone ahead and bought it, fiddling with the raw edges of the lace where they fell across her knees, her breasts, her collarbones. The loose threads around the neckline added a touch of wildness to the overall look that she’d never really considered to be _her_ but had her pulse spiking and skin sparking when she thought how it might look to—

Well. That was the plan, right?

And it’s not like she could stop at only the dress. She’d pinned her hair up, letting a fair amount of softly curling strands stay loose, framing her face and trailing down her neck. And okay, maybe she’d watched a few YouTube videos too, practicing that winged eyeliner trick a couple of times before she was satisfied with the result. Carefully painting her lips a vivid, glossy red. 

So yeah, once she was all done and stepped back to take a look, sliding her feet into the pointy-toed pumps with the extra high, spindle-thin heel she’d let the salesperson bully her into—seventy-five percent off and what else was she going to wear? Her booties? Her sneakers?—it’d seemed kind of silly to not go all the way and shave her legs in the end. 

Just to above the knee, she’d assured herself, kicking off the shoes and heading for the bathroom. 

Just for the look of it. 

  
  


———

  
  


Beth hears the soft _click_ of a door opening out in the bedroom a lot sooner than expected and nearly sighs in relief. Annie said she was more or less around the corner—and that Beth owed her huge considering her big plans with Ben, their pajamas, and a cheesy horror movie marathon—but she was going to stop for marshmallows and it seemed like they’d only gotten off the phone ten minutes ago. 

She’s glad, though. For as much as she delights in the thought of telling Rio he has to wait, she wants it to be on her terms. Deliberate. Intentionally to annoy him. Not because she couldn’t get a babysitter together in time.

Because he would wait. Probably. 

That almost makes it worse. He’d give Beth endless shit about it, but she doesn’t think he’d demand she leave her children unattended. Not if there was no other option. 

Or maybe he’d call Mick, order him over here to watch them like he’d been stationed here watching her. 

It’d be so like Rio to effortlessly pluck one of the last remaining shreds of control Beth still holds in her white-knuckled grip. Wordlessly telling her she doesn’t even have a right to choose her childcare anymore without his say so. Like it isn’t enough to control every aspect of her business, he wants the rest of her life too.

“In here,” Beth calls, concentrating on navigating the cheap, pink Daisy razor around the knob of her ankle. “Hey, what time is it? I need a time check, and my hands are all wet.”

“6:13.”

Beth freezes. 

The low, husky—slightly amused, of _course_ —drawl sweeps over her, almost like a tangible caress across the back of her neck, and it’s all Beth can do to hold back a shiver.

Not Annie. Definitely not Annie. 

She straightens, turning slowly, already blushing a little that Rio’s caught her precariously balanced and scrambling to get ready. This was _not_ the first impression she’d pictured when she imagined this moment. She figured he’d text he was out front and she’d step out of the house in her dress and her shoes, her hips swinging and he’d—

But as she faces him, the thought fades, and she realizes she’d made a miscalculation. She hadn’t considered whether or not her instruction to look _done up_ would apply to him as well as her, and she should’ve because as Beth gets a look at him, she realizes she’s never seen Rio in a suit and that maybe this game she’s playing goes both ways. 

The long lines of the cut accent his slim silhouette, making him seem taller, sleeker, somehow sharper where he’s leaned up against the bathroom vanity. He wears button-downs all the time, so Beth can only assume there’s something about the contrast of the black suit against the crisp white of his shirt that brings out the knife-edge of his jaw. The collar frames his tattoo, the bird rippling like it’s poised to take flight as he swallows. It’s accented by the skinny black tie that runs down, down, down his torso to rest on his belt.

Beth looks away, then immediately back, cursing herself for giving ground.

Rio caught the lapse, she can tell from the faint smile curling around his lips—she doesn’t know why she thought maybe he wouldn’t, he always does, it’s infuriating—but he doesn’t say anything, just drags his eyes over her slowly, oh so slowly, as he takes her in from head to toe.

Beth’s skin prickles in anticipation, the quiet rolling over her like a wave of static electricity as she waits.

“Done up enough for you?” she asks when she can’t stand it any longer.

He hums, a non-committal, unimpressed noise that makes her jaw clench, grinding her teeth in an effort not to obviously scowl and let him know he’s getting to her. 

She sweeps her eyes over him again, down then back up to his face-smoothed over and blank. She can’t help it, it’s the first time she’s seen him since—

Well.

After the showroom—nearly two months back now, she realizes with a jolt—Rio’d stopped coming around as much. The supervision didn’t slack, if anything that’d stepped up. There was a steady stream of... _unusual_ clientele at the Paper Porcupine. Beth thought she recognized a few of them from those weeks back before—no, _after_ —when she was printing like her life depended on it. 

Except it wasn’t _like,_ because it actually did. 

_Maybe you don’t need to be involved._

She was also pretty sure she’d seen some distinctive avian tattoos on some of the new people working in the warehouse end of Boland Bubbles the last time she’d swung by, though she hadn’t processed the potential significance until later. 

At the time, she’d been on a futile mission to convince Dean not to file the divorce papers. Not so much for the sake of their marriage, or even the kids at that point, but—she can admit now, if only to herself—because she didn’t want to explain losing control of the figurehead she’d placed in charge of her brilliant washing solution. It hadn’t mattered. Dean’d been adamant, it was him or crime, and as the silence stretched in the wake of his repeated ultimatum, they’d grown solemn, seeming to realize in unison how little was left between them to fight for. 

And as for having to explain—the next time she’d seen Rio, he’d already known, confirming her suspicions of how closely under surveillance she was. 

But not by him directly. She’d thought—hoped, maybe; wished, even—after that night in the showroom maybe things would get better, but it was like once Boland Bubbles was up and running, he didn’t want anything to do with her, which—

It shouldn’t hurt, the confirmation that she was nothing more than a means to an end. 

It wasn’t like Beth didn’t know that. 

She barely even saw Mick anymore, not now that the cash drops were a thing of the past. Instead, she’d been given information for a dummy corp—she presumed, anyway, given the glimpses and fragments she’s seen—but for all she knows Rio really has an investment firm to his name. She’d gone by the showroom one night when she knew Dean had the kids and was unlikely to be working late, or any other extracurricular activity she supposes, and plugged it into the accounting software as a vendor payout. The one upside of Dean’s utter failure to manage his finances is that she doesn’t have to worry about him looking too closely at the books. 

But, the point is, she hasn’t seen Rio in—since—

It’s been a few weeks.

“You’re late,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. Right. 

“Barely,” Beth snaps. 

“Said six.”

Beth squares her shoulders, not bothering to hide her own tiny smile when his gaze snaps to her chest at the movement. “Yet here you are, thirteen minutes late yourself.”

He huffs, softly, the sound mostly derisive but underneath she thinks she hears a layer of genuine amusement.

It’s only because she’s watching so closely that Beth catches it, the flicker in his impossibly dark eyes. For a split second, the blank mask slips and she catches a glimpse of heat and maybe she’s more on edge than she realized, or maybe it’s because last time—

Whatever it is, she latches on to that flicker like it’s a lifeline, her mouth going dry and for a single, blissful moment, she forgets.

She forgets the water beading and trailing down her leg, leaving a soapy puddle on the floor. She forgets the muted rumble of whatever Disney Pixar something the kids turned on in the end. She forgets the hour she spent getting her hair and makeup just right, intent and focused, determined to claim this victory as her own. 

She forgets the games and challenges, the lies and tricks, the bitter, bloody history littering the space between them like spent bullet casings on cracked, uneven ground. 

Instead, she remembers the warmth of his hand on the bare skin of her thigh, cutting through the ice that’d encased her for years as he’d angled her hips in that dirty bar bathroom. She remembers the way the calluses decorating his palms scraped rough against her waist as he held her in place in her bed, the afternoon sunshine beaming through the window around them, somehow rendering the scene stark and surreal at the same time. 

Beth had said once that she was an addict, and at the time, she’d thought crime was her drug. That the adrenaline rush of doing something wrong and getting away with it, the thrill of being smarter, quicker, _better_ than the people around her was the thrill she couldn’t get enough of.

She’d been partially right; she was unarguably an addict.

What she’d had wrong was her drug of choice. She knows that now. Knew that three weeks ago, when Rio’d come by the Paper Porcupine after hours on a rare night when Beth’d been there alone—how does he always _know?—_ making paper, and she’d—

 _Consider it a spot check,_ he’d said, slipping in through the back door, a few days after she and Dean’d had their sad standoff at Boland Bubbles. 

He’d settled onto that same stool in the corner he’d sat that first night watching her with that still, heavy focus, deciding her fate, her _worth,_ like he’d had the _right._

She’d been furious—back then and the other night. At him, for coming and going from her life with no warning, never letting her feel like she has her feet solidly underneath her, for thinking he could yank her around using his presence and attention as both a threat and some sort of twisted reward. 

At herself, because it worked. 

This time, though, she wasn’t afraid of him, not like before. She’d passed his _tests_ and they both knew he wasn’t going to kill her. At least, not right then. 

No, this was different. That night, he’d been cold, distant—as remote and untouchable as the moon and terrifying in his unfamiliarity. This time, he hadn’t been warm, far from it, but there was something irritatingly familiar in the way he’d watched her. Something smug and challenging that she may not like but she _knew._

Behind that smooth smile, half-hidden by his hand pillowing his chin as he’d draped himself across the stool in the corner again, was a message. A reminder that she worked for _him._ She printed and washed _his_ money. He could show up wherever and whenever _he_ wanted. 

He wanted to remind her that none of this was hers.

Looking back, Beth doesn’t even remember what he’d said, some crack about their relationship. Something about whether or not the new terms of it were enough of an incentive now that her bed’s as empty as her house. 

What she does remember is pausing wiping her hands clean of the sticky pulp mixture _she’d_ made, surrounded by the print operation _she’d_ built with the supplies _she’d_ found to make a product _he’d_ had to import. She’d turned to him, a sparkling sort of clarity settling over her, a tangible, tingling feeling she’d felt from her head to her toes. 

She’d surprised them both by striding over to him and before she’d thought it all the way through she’d reached out. When she’d cupped him, she’d found him hard like she’d known she would because she _knows—_ she’s always known—what the gleam in his eye means, even when she’s pretending she doesn’t. 

Beth had meant it as a reminder, a message of her own. That he wasn’t the only one with the power to determine the course of their _relationship._ And it worked, she’d known it had from his sharp inhale, the way his eyes darkened even further and his hands flexed, but he’d held back and that’d—well. 

Beth had never been able to resist a challenge. 

So, she’d backed up to the work table, keeping her eyes locked on his, still not thinking about anything besides the task at hand, the burning need to get him to break and come to her. 

And, when she’d reached down with trembling fingers and unsnapped the button on her jeans, he had. 

(She wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ think about what it meant that she’d been wetter than she can ever remember being—even for him. That she let him hold her down, bent over the same work table she’d last seen him sitting at that night—when Lucy—when he’d—)

Like she’d said, she’s an addict. And apparently, six months is the limit of how long she can hold out before the want—the _need_ that seems like it’s always there now that she’s had a taste no matter what she does to try and quell it—is too much.

But by that count, she has five months and one week before she’s allowed another relapse. Before she can give in to the heat twisting and twining through her limbs and pooling low, and tell herself it’s not her, not _real;_ it’s the addiction.

That is—unless he’s—

Assuming he isn’t—

If she ever hears back from Fitzpatrick, who seems to have disappeared entirely, it might be a different story. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Beth asks, gripping the razor tighter, the flimsy plastic bending as she digs her nails into the palm of her hand to anchor herself in the moment. 

Rio tucks his hands in his pockets, tenting out the fabric of his pants, and Beth doesn’t look, she _doesn’t._ “Got a job, remember?” 

Beth scoffs. Obviously. “In my bathroom.”

“Seemed like I was invited.”

“I thought you were _Annie.”_ She waves the razor around to encompass his not-Annie-ness, in case he’d somehow missed it. 

Rio doesn’t say anything, only raises his eyebrows, his eyes tracking the movement of her hand before dropping back to her legs and trailing slowly up. 

“I need a minute,” she says stiffly, torn between gratification that the dress seems like it’s working and annoyance because it doesn’t feel like the victory she’d imagined. Like he’d snatched it away from her somehow by catching her off guard. “I’m not ready.”

He hums an affirmation but makes no move to leave. Instead, he shifts his weight, readjusting himself against the counter like he’s settling in to wait. _Watching_ her. 

Beth swallows, considering her options. 

She could demand he get out and knows he would. For all that he tramples her boundaries when it suits him, there are some she knows without knowing how that he’ll always respect. And for as much as he’s intentionally intimidated her, outright terrified her, held a gun to her head, and threatened to kill her, he’s never given her any reason to fear him like _that._

But. 

If Beth does, if she tells him to leave, she’s ceding ground. Acknowledging that he distracts her, that he gets to her, that he makes her feel anything at all. And that is—

That’s not even an option, not really. 

She only has one leg left to do, anyway. 

With a sniff like the whole thing is entirely beneath her, Beth goes back to what she was doing. 

Okay, maybe she arches her back a little more than she needs to when she bends over. Maybe she extends her leg in a more elongated line than she would’ve if she were alone. Maybe she lets her fingers trail lightly along her skin in a slow, deliberate caress there’s no actual reason for besides catching and holding Rio’s attention. 

And, okay, maybe her thighs clench when she hears him inhale, the soft sound impossibly loud in the thick silence blanketing the tiny space. 

Beth glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and _oh._

Rio’s watching, his gaze fixed on her hand on her leg with a focus so intent that’s nearly tangible. She drags the razor up her leg, past her knee, and just barely up to her inner thigh, feeling the ghost of calluses in its wake. His eyes follow the motion like a predator tracking its prey. 

Curious, Beth stretches back down, setting the razor at her ankle and stroking it slowly, deliberately up, watching the way he watches her, almost like he’s—like this—

Her eyes drop, and her lips part when she sees his hands aren’t the only thing tenting out his pants. 

She almost—she wants to laugh, right? Doesn’t she? If nothing else, in triumph at having caught him out so openly _wanting._ Except—

The way he’s looking at her, the intensity banked but still simmering, honed so tightly on her that the room nearly vibrates with it, she feels the reverberation of it thrumming inside her.

Without warning, his eyes snap to hers, and she jerks, nearly nicking herself. Beth can feel the tingle climbing her cheeks and spreading across her chest, which means she’s flushing, and it only grows when the corner of his lip curls up in a sly half-smile when she pauses. 

For what feels like an impossibly long, nearly timeless moment, they look at each other. A bead of water drips off of the faucet, landing in the tub with a _plink_ that echoes through the loaded silence. 

“Keep going, Elizabeth.”

The quiet but unarguable command in his tone shoots straight through her, and the lazily coiling warmth inside her _tightens._ It’s so abrupt Beth can’t stop her shiver, and he sees it—of course he does, he sees _everything—_ his half-smile spreading and turning smug, and she—she—

“Come over here and make me,” Beth says, tipping her chin up, shocking herself at how coolly it comes out, that she said it at all because that’s not—this isn’t—

She doesn’t know what this _is,_ but cataloging it suddenly seems infinitely less important because his already dark eyes have gone black, and he’s stepping towards her, his hands out of his pockets and reaching, one hand towards her and one towards the razor. And Beth’s straightening and turning towards him, her body moving before she’d decided she was going to, already feeling the memory of them on her, rough and demanding and so _sure_ and so _right,_ and—

“What the _hell_ is happening in here?”

This time it actually is Annie, and Beth’s feet nearly go out from under her as she springs back, slipping a little in the puddle she’d made before. Rio does touch her then, a big, warm hand catching her by the wrist as she flails, and Beth bangs her elbow against the edge of the counter, sending a spike of white-hot heat up and down her arm as she jerks away. 

Between that, Annie, and the candle crashing to the ground _again,_ this time with a sharp crack as it hits the tile floor, it’s enough to bring Beth back to herself so abruptly she has the distant, passing, ridiculous thought that this is how a rubber band feels after it’s snapped.

Turning away from the both of them, eyes cast down so she can’t even see what’s happening in the mirror—she does _not_ want to know how Annie is looking at them, doesn’t want to look at Rio at _all_ right now—Beth picks up the candle, groaning softly when she sees the crack running up the side of the jar. She sets it gently on the counter and grabs her towel, furiously drying off her legs, wiping away the remnants of the soap doing double duty as shaving cream. She’s mostly done anyway, and a strip of stubble here or there isn’t going to kill anyone. 

Not like— _God,_ what was she _doing?_

“There’s a job,” Beth mutters, realizing that the silence has stretched out too long and it’s making the whole situation worse.

“Oh, okay, is _that_ what this is?”

Her back still towards the both of them, Beth fusses with the towel, folding it carefully and neatly aligning the edges, giving her blush another moment to fully recede.

She finally turns towards Annie and feels a fierce surge of pride at her sister. She knows Annie’s afraid of Rio—the thought comes with a complicated pang Beth has no idea how to begin parsing—can see it in the rigid way she’s holding herself, the way her eyes are a little too wide and her mouth is trembling slightly. But she’s facing him down anyway, feet planted and arms crossed, chin jutting out and brows set in a jagged, angry line.

For his part, Rio’s gone back to blank, his smooth, pleasant mask—the one Beth hates most because she can’t read it at _all—_ firmly in place. He’s leaned up against the shower, like this is normal, like nothing of note had happened, and it stings. But then she notes that his hands are back in his pockets and balled into tight fists. 

Actually, now that she’s looking closer, Beth can see the tension twitching along his jaw. The satisfaction that sweeps through her, along with the knowledge that he was too worked up to entirely hide it, is nearly enough to make her knees go weak even as something in her chest snarls a little tighter. 

“We’re late.”

Rio focuses on Beth at that, popping his eyebrow and running his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, tucking it into his cheek. “Oh, you ready now?”

Out of his eye line, Annie stares at Beth, widening her eyes and mouthing _what the_ fuck? 

Ignoring both of them, Beth pushes past Annie into the bedroom, grabbing the clutch she’d pulled out and left on the air mattress and sliding her feet into her shoes.

When she looks up, Annie’s slipped into the room towards the door to the hallway, like she’s placing herself between Rio and the kids—oh _God,_ the _kids,_ what if Emma’d come _back—_ and that complicated feeling lurking in Beth’s chest intensifies. She doesn’t know how to tell Annie that’s another thing they never have to worry about with him. Not in a way Beth could explain, or Annie would believe.

Beth frowns. Rio’s still lingering in the bathroom, just inside the doorway, focused over her shoulder, like he can see through the filmy curtains over the French doors—the doors he must’ve come in, she realizes, or she thinks the kids would’ve noticed him. Probably. It’s hard to tell with them sometimes.

She clears her throat and his attention shifts, his eyes skipping over the bed behind her before landing on hers. If she thought he was blank and unreadable before, it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in his gaze now. 

“So,” Beth says, swallowing hard around the lump that’s inexplicably formed. “What’s the job?”

  
  


———

  
  


The job is _bullshit,_ is what it is. 

The job is sitting in a _bar,_ looking _pretty,_ while Rio goes to a meeting. 

There’s a little more to it—she’s supposed to keep an eye on the rest of the bar and make a note of anyone paying attention to the meeting, but mostly she’s only there to, to—

“Watch the room,” Rio had said once they were in the car and on the way. 

He’d thrown it out and then waited while Beth sputtered her way to understanding how little he wanted from her.

It’s just like back...before, but somehow _worse._ At least then he’d put in some effort _pretending_ he saw her as—as a _person_ with a brain and something to contribute. Someone who could _be something._ This was...nothing. 

“That’s it?”

They’d stopped at a light, and that’s when he looked over at her, dragging his eyes up and down, slow like before but whatever _something_ she’d seen in the bathroom is long gone, leaving only cool appraisal and maybe a hint of disdain in its place. 

“Why? What you think I need you for?”

It wasn’t entirely true, Beth knew, he needed her for plenty. Between printing and washing his money, she’s practically a one, well, three-women income stream. And a lucrative one at that, now that they’ve figured out a reliable supply line for the nail polish. 

But for a minute she’d let herself think maybe there was more than that.

She isn’t sure which is worse: thinking she may have actually impressed him, coming up with the hot tub scheme and maneuvering the pieces into place, or how much believing she had mattered to her.

God, she’s so stupid. How many times is she going to make the same mistake before it sticks?

Beth swirls the dwindling remains of her drink around, the ice tinkling against the glass, and frowns at it before taking a sip. 

“A beautiful woman like you has no business looking that upset.”

The cloying smell of aftershave applied with a heavy hand proceeds the man that slides onto the stool beside her. 

“Oh,” Beth shifts, smiling her polite company smile, and flicks her eyes over him, taking in the receding hairline, sharply pressed suit, and expensive watch. There’s something vaguely familiar about him and she assumes it’s the seven versions of him that’ve come before him in the time she’s been sitting here. “It’s nothing, just thinking.”

“Whiskey, neat,” the man says to the bartender before turning towards her and flashing a set of straight, almost unnervingly white teeth. “A memory?”

Beth hums in affirmation and the man’s smile grows. “Maybe we can make some better ones.”

That startles a laugh out of her, high and bright and genuine. Over the man’s shoulder, down past the far end of the bar, nearly out of the corner of Beth’s eye, she sees a ripple of movement and studiously ignores it. 

“That is quite a line.”

His grin takes on a charmingly sheepish angle. “It’s never once worked, either.”

Beth laughs again. “And yet you keep trying.”

“First time for everything,” the man says with a shrug, extending a hand. “Tom.”

“Margaret,” Beth says, reaching out to take it, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline when he lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Coming on a little strong, don’t you think?”

She looks at his hand clutching hers, registers the indented skin and faintly paler line around the base of his ring finger. Divorced or a liar, only time will tell.

Beth tugs her fingers out of his grip, fighting the urge to wipe them on her dress, still resolutely not looking at the table in the corner.

  
  


———

  
  


“I got a meetin’,” Rio had said, finally, after Beth hadn’t been able to scrounge up any kind of a snarky retort to his previous question. 

_What you think I need you for?_

After he’d let the silence stretch out and fill the car, heavy and sticky and full of all of the ways he doesn’t need her. How she’s a charity case, just business, a liability and loose end who's only alive as long as she’s useful.

“Am I allowed to know with whom?”

Rio scoffed, like it was a ridiculous thing to ask—whether if she’s allowed or for the information at all, Beth didn’t know. Her already prickling temper spiked, barely held in check by some perverse desire to...to _prove_ herself, do well, _something,_ that she can’t entirely crush no matter how hard she tries. That seems only to grow stronger the more he shuts her out, shuts her down. 

“What am I supposed to do? Stand in the corner and look pretty? Am I allowed to speak if someone speaks to me, or do I let you answer? Can I look anyone in the eye, or should I just look at the flo—what’s so _funny?”_

He was doing that cold, derisive laugh. The one she knew he used to make her feel small, but the knowing didn’t make it any less effective, and a part of her hates him for it. 

_“What?”_

“You ain’t goin’ to the meetin’,” he drawled, punctuating the statement by lazily flicking on his turn signal.

“Then why am I—what—”

Rio pulled over and turned to her, draping one arm across the wheel; his eyes hard and cold, every last trace of amusement gone from his expression. The hair on the back of Beth’s neck stood on end as she was suddenly, excruciatingly, reminded that she was sharing a small, enclosed space with a killer. Someone she nearly—she thought she’d—

“I told you. I got my own debts to pay.” He bit off the words like it cost him something to repeat them. 

Beth shivered, abruptly right back at that picnic table, cheeks wet and staring at him, searching for any hint of the man she’d—she’d—anyone besides the cold, unfeeling stranger sitting beside her, blood so fresh on his hands she could nearly smell it underneath the scent of the cold, misty night rain falling around them, blurring her eyes, beading in her hair and on his eyelashes. 

“Thought that wasn’t my business anymore. That ship sailed, right?” She snapped her mouth shut so hard her teeth clicked but it was too late, the words had already slipped out, landing heavy between them, revealing how often she thought back to that night.

Rio caught it, but instead of the smug smile she’d expect at that kind of tacit admission, it’s like the revelation catches him off guard. His mask cracked for a split second, allowing her a flickering glimpse of something shadowed, before he slammed it back into place, too fast for her to see it clearly. 

“All you need to know is I got this meetin’ and there might be some other people who know I got it too,” he says, his tone clipped. “I need someone no one anyone knows or could recognize to keep an eye out and tell me who’s lookin’. Think you can handle that?”

Beth couldn't help it, she really couldn’t, that she sat up a little straighter as she considered what he was telling her, what he wanted her to do. _Needed_ her to do. 

And he saw it like he sees everything else and some of the...not warmth, but animation came back into his face as he sighed, rolling his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched up a little too, and it’s not fair the way she felt that almost smile in her chest. 

Ignoring the feeling and him, she leaned forward, studying the area. They’re parked on a side street between a parking lot and a sunken community garden. Directly ahead and across the street looms the ornate facade of the downtown Westin. Beth’s never stayed there, but she’s eaten in the restaurant. It’s a steakhouse. Fancy. Dean booked a reservation for their...well, one of their anniversaries, forgetting that Beth never has been particularly big on steak. 

“So you want me to, what? Hang out in the lobby?”

“Restaurant, it’s over around the corner—”

“I know.” 

“Cross the street and go in through the hotel entrance on Michigan. Cut through the lobby. I don’t want us comin’ in anything close to together. Get a drink, get a good look at the place, keep an eye on who’s coming in and out.”

“It would be _helpful_ to know if I’m looking for anyone in particular,” Beth points out, refusing to outright ask.

Rio ignores the jab, seeming to think it over before he shakes his head. “Look for anyone who’s payin’ attention. Got it?” 

He was worried, Beth realized. Whatever this was, he didn’t like it, didn’t want to be doing it. Was absolutely furious about it, actually. At her, she knew, but at the situation too, and underneath that, he was anxious. 

It sat funny, that epiphany. It kicked off some tangled snarl of emotion she didn’t have the first idea how to pick apart. Shoving it away, she focused on the task at hand, ticking through the possibilities of who or what she could be.

“It ain’t that complicated, darlin’,” Rio said, and Beth pursed her lips, annoyed. 

“I _know,”_ she repeated, this time with pointed emphasis, punctuating it with an eye roll. “I’m getting my story straight.”

Rio snorted. “Like I said, ain’t that complicated.” He flicked his eyes up and down her again, rocking his jaw. “Best lies are a li’l bit true.”

“And what’s the truth?” Beth couldn’t stop herself from asking, even knowing full well he’s setting her up, and she’s going to hate his answer. 

Sure enough, his lips twitch, and when he smiles it’s all malice and sharp edges.

“Just some bored, desperate housewife—nah, wait, sorry, ‘bout to be lonely divorcée on the prowl for a distraction.”

Beth’s jaw dropped but before she could respond, a knock at her window made her jump, and she twisted to see Mick standing outside it. She spun back around, looking out the back window. His car was parked behind them and she’d realized she had no idea how long it’d been there.

Then she turned back to Rio and he’d been waiting, still smiling that mean, awful smile.

“Try to be a little more observant inside, yeah?”

  
  


———

  
  


That was _two_ hours ago. 

Two hours nursing one drink, then another when that started to feel too conspicuous, letting men hit on her—and did she ever regret the impulse that led to buying this dress—trying to commit every detail of the bar to memory. 

The layout of the restaurant was fairly conducive to surveillance from the right vantage point. The bar itself was a bit of an island, situated in its own room with a larger dining room splitting off from it. There were stools on three of the four sides of the dark, lacquered surface that wrapped around a mirror-backed wine and liquor rack stretching to the ceiling softly lit by inlaid amber lights. Beth had snagged a seat on the far end, right where the barroom opened up into the dining room. She was far enough to the side that she could see around the center partition to the main entrance, but could use the mirror to see into the dining room behind her. It also reflected the line of booths running along the wall behind her and down around at the far end of the bar. There was really only one corner Beth couldn’t see, but to get to it, someone would have to walk in the front door or come from behind her, so she wasn’t too worried about it, she had a pretty good view. 

Including one particular table tucked into the corner, visible over Tom’s shoulder. 

“So,” Tom says, completely ignoring the bartender when she sets his drink on a napkin in front of him. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Beth can’t help the disbelieving scoff that slips out, her patience ebbing. “Really?”

Tom laughs, lifting a placating hand. “Hey, I figured I might as well go three for three.”

This time Beth can’t stop herself from glancing behind him, wondering how much longer she’s going to be subjected to the trickling stream of men that have taken a solitary woman alone in a hotel bar as an open invitation to try and ruin her night. 

Over in the corner booth, Rio’s deep in discussion with some _woman._ She’s a little older than Beth and dressed in a dark grey suit so fiercely tailored, Beth was impressed she’d been able to sit down as gracefully as she had when she’d first arrived. Her glossy black hair’s pulled back in a sleek bun, the severe style highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw and pronounced jut of her cheekbones. 

There’s another man at the table. He’d been waiting before either of the others arrived, dressed equally stylishly. He’d been there when Beth had arrived, before Rio or the woman, his dark skin gleaming in the warm golden lights softly illuminating the bar, looking vaguely familiar. It hadn’t been until probably the first hour had passed before Beth finally recognized him as the man Rio’d been talking to when she and the girls dropped off those boxes of wrapping paper on that first job all those years ago.

One table over, Mick and another man are both hunched over their phones, their used napkins and leftover silverware scattered across the table between them.

That was another thing that pissed Beth off: Rio hadn’t mentioned anything about dinner, but a little way into the meeting, servers deposited steaming plates on both tables. When Beth’s stomach felt more or less like it was about to start eating itself, she’d caved and ordered an appetizer salad, assuming Rio wasn’t going to reimburse her for any of this, and the drinks were already over her weekly budget. 

From her seat, Rio’s nearly facing her directly if she turns, and it’d been more of a challenge than she cares to admit to keep herself from looking over, studying him while he’s focused on something, someone _,_ else. 

Whoever the woman is, she seems to put Rio on edge. When Beth had seen him in the warehouse with the other man, he’d been loose, confident, _powerful._ He’s still radiating that power but even from across the room, she can see it’s coiled, violently held in check in the rigid set of his shoulders, the slow and deliberate way he gestures. She never truly realized how...how _fluid_ he usually is—even when he’s holding still, he manages to project the air of perpetual motion temporarily suspended in a moment—until seeing the opposite here. 

He’s angry, too. At this point, Beth’s pretty sure she’s intimately acquainted with every flavor of his rage, and this one is the icy banked fury that promises an answer. 

Beth wonders what they’re talking about, who the woman is. She’d entertained several fantasies about wandering over there, sliding into the booth with them, and introducing herself. She’d been so bored somewhere around the hour and a half mark she’d nearly done it. The only thing that stopped her, in the end, was the knowledge that Mick would see her coming and intercept her before she could get there, and she’d be cut out entirely. 

“But really,” Tom tries again, dragging Beth’s attention back to him. “What brings you out tonight?”

Beth opens her mouth, lie at the ready—a delayed flight, and a spontaneous decision to enjoy her unexpected night off before flying home—but he’s already barrelling ahead.

“I’m here on business, in town for one night only before I’m headed back to New York. City, that is.” He pauses, checking to see if Beth’s suitably impressed, and it’s all she can do to hold back her resigned sigh.

While Tom drones on about whatever business he’s in town for, trying to make it sound impressive by tossing out business jargon right and left, Beth lets her attention drift, doing another scan of the bar and the restaurant behind her. 

It’s a Thursday night, so there’s been a light but steady stream of people. She’s made mental notes of everyone who’s come in and out, and it’s more or less entirely been an older, business crowd—which makes sense given the day of the week, the location, and the price point of the restaurant. So far, Beth hasn’t seen anyone that’s seemed particularly noteworthy, not that she has any idea what that would constitute because why would that information be useful to her or help her do her job? 

There have been a couple of times she’s felt a faint prickling sensation, like someone’s watching her, but whenever she’s looked, she hasn’t been able to find the source of it.

Their tables have generated a fair amount of interest, but in double takes or openly curious looks that Beth puts down to being more about the ink on Rio’s throat, Mick’s face—not to mention his appalling table manners; apparently, he’s as comfortable licking his fingers at a restaurant with cloth napkins as he was at the barbeque place—and peeking out of the sleeves of the man sitting across from him. This isn’t exactly a tattooed crowd, at least not where anyone can see. 

More than a few women have eyed the corner table with a frank, blatant interest that Beth eventually realized was making her grind her teeth.

It’s just so...tasteless, the open appraisal. Like Rio’s something to be valued and acquired. It’s not underhanded—not in the way she’s looking out for—but Beth makes a note of it all the same, inwardly grimacing at the thought of how he’ll probably preen when she reports back. 

Tuning back in, Tom’s still rambling on. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Beth’s lack of attention, and she sighs a little as she sips her drink, trying to figure out how she can extract herself from this one. 

“There you are.”

The voice comes from behind Beth, jolting her back to the moment and cutting Tom off mid-sentence. It's vaguely familiar, and she’s on the verge of placing it when a man steps into her field of vision, and the floor drops out from underneath her.

It’s been so long since Beth had heard from Fitzpatrick—after a few weeks, the number she had for him was disconnected, and he was never there when she went to the copy shop—a part of her had started to believe maybe he was gone for good. She’d started to think maybe it’d all been some sort of sick game. He’d taken the money, messed with her for a little while, then disappeared off into the sunset, never to return.

It’d made her feel—

Well.

Annie and Ruby had been relieved, anyway. Ruby more obviously of the two, but even for all of Annie’s bluster around the lost funds, Beth couldn’t help but note she never suggested they try to find someone else. All three of them had seemed content to wordlessly let the scheme die. It’d been an expensive lesson, but one well learned. 

But apparently, Fitzpatrick had only been avoiding Beth, because here he is, in this bar, looking at her expectantly like they’d had plans to meet, and this isn’t a freak coincidence while she’s—

Beth’s entire body goes cold as the reality of the circumstances hits her, and she can practically _feel_ the blood drain from her face. 

“Now?” she whispers, her lips numb, searching his person for anything that looks like it could be a hidden weapon, but the simple slacks, sweater, and leather jacket thrown over top give nothing away. Not that that means anything, she’s never seen evidence of a gun before Rio produced one either, and oh _God—_

She’s suddenly grateful for all of the practice she’s had not acknowledging the corner booth throughout the night because even though her body goes entirely rigid, it’s still all she can do to keep from checking to see if Rio’s looking. Panic and fear rise like bile in her throat as she’s suddenly seized by the completely irrational conviction that if he looks over, if he sees them, he’ll somehow _know,_ and if he knows, then he’ll—he’ll—

He’ll what? Escape? Kill her? 

Die knowing she was behind it? _Again?_

But Fitzpatrick’s shaking his head, and Beth nearly sags off her stool, relief flooding her as wholly and immediately as the fear.

“Do you know this guy?” Tom’s blinking back and forth between them, confused, and Fitzpatrick raises his eyebrows like he’s asking her how she wants to play it.

Beth closes her eyes, giving herself a second to feel everything, lets the surging wave of _panicfearreliefregret_ wash over her, drown her, overwhelm every one of her senses before she forces it back and locks it away.

“I wondered where you were!” she says, plastering a bright smile across her face as she opens her eyes. 

“Couldn’t find a place to park.” Fitzpatrick smiles and shrugs, spreading his hands in a _what can you do_ gesture. “You know how it goes.”

“I didn’t realize you were waiting for someone,” Tom interjects, a hint of reproach in his voice as he grabs his drink and stands up.

“You didn’t ask,” Beth reminds him, a razor-sharp edge creeping into her voice, not acknowledging Fitzpatrick’s soft laugh.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Tom says to Fitzpatrick, ignoring Beth entirely, and with an apologetic nod that has Beth rolling her eyes, walks away. 

“What are you doing here?” Beth hisses as Fitzpatrick slides onto Tom’s abandoned bar stool. When the bartender looks over, he taps Beth’s glass, pointing to himself then holding up a single finger.

“Rescuing that poor sap,” he says, turning back and smiling thinly at Beth’s confusion. “We both know how you handle men who cross you.”

As Beth sputters, the bartender sets a bourbon on the rocks in front of him, and he nods his thanks.

Beth blinks. She wonders if Fitzpatrick knew what she was drinking before he ordered—if he noted that in his research—or if it was as simple as a lack of preference. 

“We’re about at last call. Can I get you one more?” the bartender asks, looking to Beth.

 _“Yes.”_

The bartender nods, her eyes flicking back and forth between Beth and Fitzpatrick before settling back on Beth, who shakes her head.

“Where have you been?” Beth demands once the bartender’s turned away.

Fitzpatrick shrugs. The lazy gesture makes Beth abruptly aware of how tense she is. She’s clutching the edge of the bar so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Forcing herself to relax, one finger at a time, Beth slowly swivels on her stool, getting a better angle and letting her eyes casually sweep the room. 

Nothing seems amiss. Mick’s still on his phone, Rio’s still focused on that—that woman. No one else at either table, or any other for that matter, is paying any attention to them. 

“I tried calling,” she continues. “Your phone was disconnected.”

“I’ve found it’s wise not to hold onto a phone or phone number for more than a few weeks.”

“I went to the copy shop. You were never there.”

He nods. “They told me.”

“I paid you sixty thousand dollars,” Beth snaps, an almost instinctive offense at poor project management momentarily taking priority over everything else. “You didn’t think to let me know you’d be unreachable?”

Fitzpatrick levels a long look at Beth while the bartender sets Beth’s third drink down, and Beth thanks her. The bartender moves off out of earshot, but he still doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at her.

 _“What?”_ Beth nearly snarls. She takes a sip of her drink and concentrates on the burn of the liquor trailing down her throat and warming her stomach to hold off the urge to fidget under his assessing gaze.

“Why would you need to contact me? Deal’s done. When the job’s complete, you get an invoice. Nothing else to talk about.”

“But—I—” Beth’s eyes fly back to the corner table, catching on the elegant lines of Rio’s profile. She wets her lips. “What if I had more information?” 

“What kind of information?” Fitzpatrick’s tone is detached, politely curious but also dismissive. Except when Beth glances back at him, there’s a small, knowing smile playing around the edges of his mouth.

Beth sits up straighter, completely fed up with all of these _men_ thinking they _know_ her when they don’t know _anything_ about her at _all._

Fitzpatrick hums and the understanding in the sound grates along Beth’s nerves like broken glass. “Careful now, wouldn’t want to attract any attention.”

Unable to help herself, Beth’s eyes snap to the table, meeting Rio’s. 

For a split second, everything falls away and all she can see is the darkness of his eyes, all she can hear is her pulse thundering in her ears, and something inside her chest tightens and aches, and she thinks—she feels—

Beth laughs, leaning toward Fitzpatrick like he’s said something she likes and she wants to hear more.

Over his shoulder, Rio’s eyes drift on like there’s nothing to see, like she’s a stranger who momentarily caught his attention but couldn’t hold it, and the release leaves her dizzy, oddly adrift. 

The sounds of the winding down restaurant return. The tinkling of silverware as the bussers clear tables, the low-level buzz of a few muted conversations, the quiet strains of the downtempo, inoffensive and vaguely jazzy music that’s been piped in through the speakers all reassert themselves. Further down the bar, it looks like Tom’s cornered another woman. He’s gesturing animatedly, and she’s nodding back, but Beth can see, even from all the way where she’s sitting, that her face is slack, eyes glazed over, uninterested. 

Fitzpatrick’s still looking at her, still smiling that infuriating little smile, and Beth opens her mouth, ready to tell him—tell him—

“I need to push it back.”

Beth gulps down a good amount of her drink, ignoring the way her hand isn’t entirely steady when she sets the glass back on the bar.

“Push it back?” His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you were in a hurry?”

“And then you disappeared for weeks.” Beth can’t help shooting back before shaking her head and taking another, much more controlled sip of her drink. “There have been—things have...It’s not the right time.”

Her eyes flick back to the corner table. The woman’s talking, illustrating whatever she’s saying with an emphatic sweep of her hands. Whatever it is, Rio doesn’t like it, Beth realizes. He’s leaned back in the seat, arm draped along the back of the booth, but she can see his fingers drumming furiously along the side. 

Fitzpatrick hums again—thoughtfully, this time—pulling Beth’s attention back to him. He’s studying her, still too knowing, and she takes another sip of her drink, trying to swallow her irritation down with it. 

“If it’s about the money—” Beth starts when he doesn’t say anything, something cold prickling down her spine when that stupid smile melts into a regretful frown. _“What?”_

“Unfortunately, there’s a complication.”

“What do you mean?” The cold feeling sinks into her stomach, the accompanying dread chasing away the warmth of the alcohol.

“Seems your friend has a knack for making enemies,” he says with a loose shrug, taking a sip of his own drink and watching Beth over the rim of the glass for a long moment before sighing. “It’s extremely unprofessional of me to share this, but I think maybe there’s an opportunity for some mutual benefit. I have another client who’s pushing for a more expedited timeline.”

Another—Beth jerks back, nearly falling off her stool, and Fitzpatrick reaches out a hand to steady her, gently grabbing hold of her upper arm.

“Careful now.”

“What do you _mean,_ another client?” Beth hisses. “How can you—what does that— _how?”_

He shrugs but doesn’t answer, doesn’t let go of her either. Beth sees a flash of movement over his shoulder, but when she glances up, Rio’s leaning forward, planting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together, not paying any attention to her at all. 

Fitzpatrick leans in, his breath hot on Beth’s ear, and she shudders. “Some free advice, you keep looking over there, and you’re going to give the game away.”

And, _right._

Beth shifts her weight to pull her arm out of Fitzpatrick’s grip without looking like she’s yanking it away. 

When he sits back, he gives her another long look, this one like he’s searching for something. Whatever he finds has him reaching into his pocket and fishing out a neon yellow piece of paper. Beth sees a flash of what looks like maybe boxing gloves before he’s flipping it over so the blank side faces up and signaling the bartender for a pen. 

“Here’s the thing, Mrs. Boland,” Fitzpatrick says, nodding thanks to the bartender when she hands one to him and scribbling in the corner of the page to get the ink flowing. “I meet a lot of different people doing what I do, and at this point, it’s rare for any of them to surprise me.”

He looks up, sweeping his eyes over Beth’s face. “You do, and I like that about you, so I’m going to extend an offer I don’t usually make.”

Fitzpatrick jots down a phone number and folds the piece of paper in half, sliding it along the bar to Beth. “You can reach me here for about another two weeks. Think it over, and if you decide you want to, I’ll let you buy out the contract.”

“What? I don’t—I…” Beth trails off when he just raises his eyebrows at her, that too knowing curve back in his smile. She swallows hard. “How much?”

“One hundred and twenty thousand. Keep smiling,” Fitzpatrick commands when Beth chokes.

She lets out a bright, tinkling laugh, throwing her head back like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “That’s _twice—”_

“You’d be buying out two contracts,” he reminds her before finishing off his drink and hopping off his stool. He pulls two twenties out of his wallet and tucks them under the empty glass before he turns to Beth, close enough that his slacks brush against her bare leg now that he’s standing. She fights the urge to lean away, following the movement of his arm as he reaches out and taps the folded paper still sitting on the bar. “Think about it.”

Beth hears him leave but can’t take her eyes off the piece of paper, the blaring neon yellow filling her vision.

She’d asked for more _time,_ not to—it wasn’t that she didn’t—didn’t _need_ to—it’s not about—

Now isn’t a good time, not when Rio’s bringing her in on other jobs. That’s all she meant. She still wants—well, she _has_ to—

_Think about it._

What is there to think about that she hasn’t already considered? She hasn’t had a good night's sleep in weeks, _months,_ in favor of going round and round in increasingly obsessive circles. He’s taken _everything_ from her: her business, her money, hell, even her _stuff._ Pretty much the only thing he _hasn’t_ taken at this point is her life, and she isn’t foolish enough to think that isn’t forfeit the moment she steps too far out of line. 

_My girl._

That was a lesson she didn’t need to repeat. 

God, if he knew who Fitzpatrick was, what they were talking about—

Throwing back the rest of her drink, Beth sets it down with a _click_ next to the paper. She reaches for it and stops.

And even if she _did_ want to call things off—which she _doesn’t,_ she _can’t—_ how could she possibly come up with one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. In two _weeks._ Where would they even get enough singles to make pulp? 

Beth laughs. Assuming she could even get Ruby and Annie on board.

Her hand hovers.

_Next time empty the clip._

It’s the only way out; he’s made that clear.

Beth snatches up the paper, pinching it between her fingers and poised to rip it in half and stops. 

It feels like a mistake, getting rid of her only method of contacting Fitzpatrick.

_Why would you need to contact me?_

Things come up, Beth assures herself, tucking the paper in her purse. She’s being _smart._

Letting out a shaky breath, Beth snaps her clutch shut and looks up only to find Rio looking back at her, something twisted in his expression.

Time seems to stop as something in her chest catches and _aches,_ and she doesn’t even know _why,_ because it’s not—they’re not—

Then the woman across from him snaps her fingers right in his face, and he jerks, looking back to her. But it’s too late, she’s already following his line of sight, and Beth looks down, away, anywhere else but the table, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and trying to pretend there’s nothing noteworthy about her.

Is it even pretend, really? Does it matter if the woman catches Beth looking? Who _is_ she, anyway?

Beth darts a glance at the table in the mirror, her heart hammering in her throat. The woman’s turned her attention back to Rio. She’s saying something to him, driving a finger into the table for emphasis. His jaw’s clenched so tight Beth can see it from all the way where she’s sitting but he doesn’t respond.

Anxiety sits heavy on Beth’s chest, making her fingers twitch. What was that look? What did it mean? What did he see? He couldn’t possibly—

Beth plunks her elbows down on the bar, resting her forehead in her hands. Her head feels like it’s spinning, too many thoughts and _what-ifs_ swimming around inside it, and that last bourbon didn’t help. Neither did downing it so quickly. 

She wants to go _home._ This isn’t a job, it’s set dressing. She hasn’t seen anything noteworthy besides—nothing she can report on, anyway. What is she doing here besides decorating the bar, getting hit on by an endless parade of men?

 _God,_ is that what it was about? Is he _enjoying_ this? Beth reduced to nothing but a pretty face while he conducts business he has no intention of ever letting her be a part of? Forcing her to watch from the outside, shut out with no avenue in? 

Is this some kind of punishment? Like she’s made a mess, thinking she could do this without him, take this from him, and this is just one more way he’s rubbing her nose in it?

“Are you okay?” Beth lifts her head to see the bartender watching her, a sympathetic smile stretched across her face, bringing out a single dimple. “We’re shutting down soon. Can I get you something? Water? The check?”

“The check, please,” Beth says gratefully, she has no idea what she’s supposed to do when the bar closes. Go home? Wait in the lobby? God forbid Rio ever tell her flat out what he wants from her. 

Reaching for her clutch to fish out her last remaining credit card, she wonders if this is some kind of test on top of a punishment. As she pulls the card out, the yellow paper slides out with it, and she flinches.

Two weeks. She has two weeks to—well. 

In two weeks, it’ll be done. Over.

Blowing out a shaky breath, Beth stuffs it back in her purse. 

There’s an explosion of movement out of the corner of her eye, and she turns without thinking. The woman’s striding away, the man who’d been sitting at Mick’s table following close behind. Rio’s also standing, but he’s stopped and turned back to the table, to the other man who’s saying something, gesturing around the bar. 

Whatever he’s saying isn’t something Rio wants to hear. He’s shaking his head, looking to Mick and jerking his chin towards the door, and when he spins around, his gaze sweeps over Beth without pausing like she isn’t there at all. 

  
  


———

  
  


The cold air hits Beth like a slap in the face when she pushes through the heavy doors of the hotel lobby, clearing some of the wobbliness from that third drink. The early spring night air still carries a winter chill that makes her shiver and wish she had a wrap. She used to have several, and a number of wide scarves that would work as one in a pinch, but they’re all tucked away who knows where with the rest of her belongings. 

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, Beth hops up and down a little, trying to get her blood moving. She winces as each impact sends a sharp pain through the balls of her feet thanks to the stupid shoes she’d picked out thinking she’d—he’d— 

She’s come out a different entrance than the one she’d entered through, near the hotel’s valet service on a slightly quieter road, facing a different park than the one Rio’d let her out at before. This one has soft lights dangling over and illuminating the stone walking paths that weave through the narrow tree-lined space, casting spindly shadows across the street. There’s steady traffic rushing along Michigan Avenue at the end of the block closest to her, but the park’s silence makes it seem muffled and distant.

Scanning the street and wiggling her toes, Beth hopes she’s not supposed to hike her way back across the street—if she is she’s going to sit down right here on the curb and call a cab, Rio can be as mad as he wants—and nearly whimpers in relief when she sees the familiar, boxy shape of the Mercedes idling at the end of the valet lane. 

Beth makes her way slowly down the street, focusing on not limping, and when she reaches the car, Mick blinks at her from the front passenger seat, blank as ever, showing no signs of moving. She looks past him to Rio who’s taken off his suit jacket—Beth can see it folded neatly in the backseat—loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. The tendons in his forearm are popping out despite the way he’s got one hand draped loosely over the wheel.

He looks back at her, eyes dark and unreadable, and pops an eyebrow, jerking his head towards the back in a clear command. 

Sighing, Beth shuffles a step back, wobbling a little as her feet demand she sit down immediately. 

No one says a word as she climbs in behind Mick, but the silence has a thrumming, loaded quality to it that makes her feel like she’s interrupted something. The moment Beth pulls the door shut, maybe even a split second before, Rio throws the car in gear and peels out, the sudden acceleration sending her tumbling against the doorframe. 

Beth purses her lips and rights herself. She slides into the middle seat where she can keep an eye on both of them and flicks a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt. Oh look, he’s mad about something. Shocking. 

The silence holds until they’re pulling up to the curb in front of Mick’s car on the quiet stretch of street where Rio’d first dropped Beth off. Rio throws the Mercedes in park and sits back in his seat, making eye contact in the rearview mirror. Beth sits up straighter, pushing her shoulders back. 

“Who was the man in the bar, Elizabeth?” He bites out the question, over-enunciating each syllable, and Beth’s mouth goes dry. 

Mick snorts, shaking his head and sliding out of the car, letting his door fall shut behind him. 

“What do you mean?” Beth asks, her voice sweet and curious, stalling as she considers her options.

“Yeah, see, that big-eyed innocent thing don’t really work on me. I know you. Who was he?”

What can she say? How can she make him let this go? What will he _believe?_

“Why? Jealous?” The question comes out huskier than she meant it to. Beth licks her lips. Watches him follow the movement in the mirror even as he scoffs. 

“He went straight to you.”

Beth crosses her arms and tips her chin up. “So did a lot of men. That’s what happens when a woman sits alone in a bar.”

“He knew you.”

There’s a thread of _something_ in Rio’s voice that cuts through the rising anxiety, dispelling it like smoke. Something Beth recognizes from _Dean_ of all people. Something she’d never have expected from—

Beth blinks, a very different picture slowly coming into focus and with it, a really, really bad, _wrong_ idea.

She swallows, hard. 

Raising her eyebrows and frowning, Beth shrugs delicately and recrosses her arms.

Rio sucks in his lower lip, flattening his mouth into a thin line, arching an eyebrow as he considers her. Beth stares back, daring him to ask again. 

Instead, his eyes drop, and Beth hugs herself a little tighter, making her cleavage that much more pronounced. When his gaze flicks back to her, something hot and knowing’s sparking in it, and her pulse leaps in response. 

“Don’t lie.”

The low, gravelly demand goes straight through her, reigniting every nerve ending, and she nearly shivers at the rush. Maybe she does shiver because he smiles that shark smile of his, the one that comes out when he senses blood in the water. 

“Tell me who he was.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Elizabeth.”

He draws out the last syllable, giving her name an almost sing-song cadence and Beth’s breath catches. 

She shouldn’t. She _can’t—_

Beth licks her lips again, slower and more deliberate. Waits for his eyes to meet hers again. Lets him see the answering heat in her own.

“Make me,” she says.

Rio’s slamming open the door and coming around the front of the car nearly before the words are out of her mouth. 

Beth scrambles across the seat to meet him at the door, barely processing the sound of Mick’s car starting up from behind them. When Rio yanks open the back passenger side door, the headlights beam across him, throwing the harsh angles and smooth plans of his face into sharp relief. His dark eyes gleam, intent on hers, and something in her _throbs,_ then Mick pulls away, leaving them shrouded in darkness.

Beth swings her legs around, over the edge of the seat, and out of the car. He catches them, his big hands wrapping around her bare calves. Holding one still with a firm, steady grip, he runs a palm up the other. His callouses scrape over her skin, and this time she definitely shivers because he full-on grins like he’s won something.

“You missed a spot.”

“Some asshole barged into my bathroom and distracted me.”

His hand climbs higher, over her knee and under the scalloped, jagged edge of her dress, and heat spools tighter inside Beth with every inch.

“Who’d you buy this dress for, Elizabeth?”

Beth bites down on her lip so hard she tastes pennies, shaking her head, eye locked to his hand. 

“Who’d you get done up for?”

The tips of his fingers ghost over the very top of her thigh, and she instinctively spreads her legs, giving him better access and pushing against the hand still holding her calf in place. Her breathing goes shallow when he doesn’t budge. 

“Was it him? Did you text him? Tell him to come?” 

He’s sliding a finger along the edge of her panties, playing with the hem. Beth’s mouth falls open, nearly panting now, and she knows she has to stop this, _knows_ it isn’t right—

“What’d you think would happen? What were you tryin’ to do?”

Her attention’s locked on his hand, his fingers so close she can feel the ghost of them on her— _in_ her—but that isn’t what happened. He isn’t—she didn’t—

“I didn’t tell him...” Beth trails off, gasping as he hooks the very tip of his finger under the elastic.

“No? He just knew where you were? It’s all a coincidence?” 

The triumph in his voice registers, breaking through the heat. Beth looks up at him, and he’s watching her, predatory and intent and— _right._

She pushes herself back to sitting upright—when had she fallen back on her elbows?—squirming a little. Rio pulls his hand back down, resting it on her knee but not removing it entirely, and lets go of her calf with the other, giving her room to maneuver. 

The cool night air hits her skin where his hand had blanketed it and it erupts in goosebumps. Beth’s abruptly reminded they're parked on a public street, only a few small trees, a public garden, and maybe a hundred yards separating them from one of Detroit’s busiest downtown streets. Across the park behind Rio, a bright light beams out of the darkness. Beth squints. Someone’s pulled open the door of a bar, the distant sound of music and laughter cutting through the night.

Instead of bringing her down like she’d expect, Beth whimpers, an involuntary reaction to the heat that rushes through her without warning. A tiny, wanton noise that seems to echo between them in the abrupt silence when the bar door swings shut.

For a split second, Rio’s mask breaks. Something surprised and delighted flashes across his face, widening his eyes, and his hand tightens, his fingertips digging into her thigh. 

Then it passes, and his expression smooths out and goes sly.

“Who was he, Elizabeth?” He nearly croons the words, honey thick on his tongue.

Beth blinks, trying to focus. He isn’t letting it go. She has to tell him something, and he has to believe it. 

_Best lies are a li’l bit true._

Beth swallows hard. “He works at the Pack and Ship by the Ashfield Middle School. They’ve done some printing for the PTA.”

“Yeah?” The victorious smile that spreads across Rio’s face leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She doesn’t know if it’s because she’s letting him think he won or because she is and for once she isn’t sure if she wants to. “How’d he know you were there?”

“I don’t know. That part really is a coincidence.” 

Rio hums thoughtfully, considering her answer. His fingers trace patterns over her knee and up her thigh, stilling when he feels her muscles clench.

“Why’d you take his number?”

She shouldn’t. She _knows_ she shouldn’t for a thousand different reasons. She’s lying. If he finds out about what, there’s a good chance he’ll make her pay for it, it might even be the line she can’t uncross and this time he really will kill her. How many times can she—she—

And besides, he killed _Lucy._ Letting herself feel anything for him at all besides hatred and disgust is the _worst,_ most _hideous_ thing she could do. 

But.

When she’s here with him like this, only the two of them, away from everything else, all of it somehow seems so far away. When his hands are on her and she’s drowning in the tangy, rich scent of him it somehow doesn’t seem to matter as much. When she hears him exhale and realizes he isn’t entirely steady either, she thinks _maybe—_

When it all falls away all that’s left is the _wanting._

Beth tilts her chin up, defiantly silent. She smiles, fierce and sharp and challenging, and—with her eyes locked on his—lets her legs fall open, tilting herself towards him in invitation. 

Rio leans into the car, bracing himself with a forearm against the front passenger seat and crowding up against Beth, who locks her elbows and refuses to shift back. His tie falls forward, draping against her breasts, her belly, as he slides his hand under her dress and further up her thigh, until the tips of his fingers just barely brush over her panties against her center. When he hisses, she knows she’s already soaked through the fabric. 

“Did you like it?” Rio asks leaning in so close his breath gusts warm across Beth's ear and every time she inhales, it’s full of him. “All those men hitting on you? Did it make you feel wanted?”

God, it’s working, he _believes_ her. And that’s—

“I saw you,” he murmurs into her skin. “I saw how you’d look at me. Did that make it better? Me watching them want you? Not able to do shit about it?”

Sparks cascade down Beth’s spine. She shudders, her hips jerking, searching for friction. He answers by cupping her and holding steady as she grinds down on the heel of his hand.

“Yeah, you like that.” He curls his fingers, pressing into her through the wet fabric. “You think any of them can do this to you? You think _anyone_ else can?”

Beth shakes her head—in denial of or in answer to the question, she doesn’t know—and his nose brushes against her cheekbone at the movement. 

“No?”

He hooks his thumb under her panties, peeling them up off of her. Enough that he can get beneath them and run his fingers along her lips, spreading the wetness already pooling around her. 

“No, what?”

When he finally strokes her clit—only once, a deliberate but glancing touch—it sends a bolt of electricity crackling along her entire nervous system. She bucks, making him laugh, a low, hoarse sound that ripples through her like an aftershock. 

“No, what, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t—” 

The words come out as nearly a sob, and Beth isn’t even sure what she’s trying to say, the heat so thick she can’t think around it. 

“S’okay,” he assures her, gently. He noses at the soft spot below her ear, nipping at the edge of her jaw. “You can say it.” 

“I—” 

It’s not—she can’t, she _can’t—_

He strokes a finger down, dipping it just barely inside of her, and she contracts so hard it almost hurts at the so much but not anywhere near enoughness. 

_“You,”_ she gasps. 

It’s the most she can give him, and he must know it because he rewards her by slipping his finger all the way into her. Her eyes flutter shut and she makes a helpless, wordless noise, loud enough that she knows it’s echoing through the park behind him, but not caring in the slightest.

Her elbows tremble from the force of holding herself up, not letting herself touch him, grab him, cling to him, but when he adds another finger, she leans into his shoulder, and it’s all she can do to stop herself from thinking things like _good_ and _right_ and _finally_ and _more._

A car honks and brakes squeal in the distance, but they’re drowned out by Beth’s ragged breathing filling the back seat as she loses herself in the slide of his fingers in and out of her, crooking just so at the exact right moment in each thrust to make her toes curl.

She dimly registers one of her shoes clattering to the ground, but then he adds a third finger, and the sweet ache as she stretches to accommodate him is so much, almost as much as his soft exhale against her neck when she yields to him. She’s so _full_ and he’s _everywhere,_ all she can see and hear and smell and feel and she wants to taste him—maybe she can, the memory of him is so vivid on her tongue—and it’s so, _so—_

“You feel this?” he asks, pressing his thumb down firmly on her clit. “You feel me?”

Beth doesn’t know exactly what to call the sound she makes, but it’s enough of an affirmation that she feels him smile against her neck.

“No one else can make you feel like this.”

He starts drawing circles with his thumb. The heat spikes, and she’s climbing up and up and up towards an unavoidable peak, pulsing and fluttering around his fingers as they’re moving and moving and—

“Say it.”

She barely even registers the command because he quirks his fingers, his thumb moving in tandem as he strokes once, twice, three times, and Beth _breaks._ She clamps down hard, every muscle in her body locking up then releasing as she comes, sobbing _yes, yes, yes_ over and over into his shoulder.

Rio keeps circling, lightly, drawing it out, and right before the sensation tips over into too much, he pulls back, out of her, tugging her panties back into place. He pushes off the seat, out of the car, and Beth sways forward, nearly toppling out after him.

Stepping back onto the sidewalk, he pops his fingers in his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks them clean and _oh._ He shouldn’t have the right to look that _smug,_ but with her orgasm still thrumming through her body, Beth can’t bring herself to do much more than scowl, blinking furiously to try and clear the haze. He adjusts himself—proving his point obviously had an effect on him—but he makes no move to come closer, seemingly content to watch her claw her way back to herself. Relishing the evidence of how thoroughly he’d dismantled her.

Looking away, Beth scoots forward and hops down. She lands awkwardly on one foot, wincing and wobbling on the heel. She catches herself on the frame of the car, using it for balance as she grabs her fallen shoe. 

She smooths down her dress and straightens up, rolling her shoulders back, and finally looks back at him, daring him to say something.

But he only smiles, sly and satisfied, all of the tension from before so thoroughly dissipated it’s like it’d never been there to begin with. There’s something so relieving about the loose, lanky lines of him, fluid and assured the way she’s used to and not the tense, stiff version of him from inside the bar, that Beth nearly smiles back. She feels her lips start to twitch up before she remembers he’s smiling because he _won_ and scowls instead, but that only makes him smile wider, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and it only makes the victory sweeter. 

And it’s not like it’s even a victory, not really, he only thinks he won because he doesn’t know—

_God._

Nausea twists through Beth’s stomach as reality hits her, and she remembers...everything. 

Rio’s smile melts away like he can sense the shift in her mood, and he cocks his head, studying her for a moment. Whatever conclusion he comes to has him stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels, his lips twisting into a sneer.

Beth swallows, opening her mouth. She closes it again. 

Two people stagger out of the bar across the park, their laughter drifting over as they stumble towards a waiting car. 

Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, Beth shuts the back door and yanks open the front passenger one, climbing in and pulling it shut behind her. 

Rio doesn’t move for a moment. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Beth sees his shoulders jerk and it looks like he laughs. But after he comes around and gets in the car—starting the engine and pulling away from the curb—and they pull up to the light at Michigan Avenue, the street lights wash over them and she sees his face is blank and empty.

He drives her home in silence. He doesn't ask for any other observations or details she’d collected throughout the night and she offers him nothing in return. 

There’s so little truth she can tell him that won’t cost her her life. 

_Think about it._

When they pull up in front of her house, Beth slips out of the car without a word, fishing around in her purse, the folded up paper tucked inside crinkling as she pulls out her keys, walking up to the front door. 

She doesn’t look back.


End file.
